The Setting Sun
by MormonMaiden
Summary: This is a reflection of Smellerbee's past, with some Longerbee at the end. Read the warning inside. Thanks!


-o-Darling readers, you are being warned. The third section of this piece is for MATURE readers only. You can skip over that third section (I use the separator "**o-0-o**") and still get the gist of it. It is very graphic, so if you can't handle violence and sex, DON'T READ IT!! The rest of the 'fic is rated Teen, but the THIRD SECTION is very much MATURE.

This piece is dedicated to Jesus.Lives for her insistence that I get a Longerbee posted, and my muse, Bill the Morphin' Plumber, whose corrupted soul wouldn't let me post anything BUT this piece. So, heed my warning, read, enjoy, and REVIEW!!-o-

-o-

He stood before her like a god, flanked on either side by Longshot and Pipsqueak. She was young—six or seven, but she had long since stopped counting her birthdays. There was a hesitancy in her voice as she spoke, for she was weighing options of enormous consequence in her mind.

"Is..is there no way that I can come stay with you guys?" Her long hair swayed in the wind. The sun had begun its decent, and long shadows separated her from the boys, no, the Freedom Fighters she wanted to join.

"You'd be more useful _in _the city," Jet answered firmly. "We have plenty of boys living out here in the forest, but no spies within the village walls. Why would you _want_ to leave your family?"

The girl (she had no name, not yet) said nothing, which was a sharp contrast from her usual defiant manner. The only reason Jet was even considering allowing her to join was because she had the ability to slip past their guard unnoticed—if not for her stealth he would not be allowing a _female_ even partial membership in the group. (He was, after all, ten years old, and had had to worry about cootie infestation in the ranks.)

"Are you in or not?" he asked, losing patience. "We don't have all day."

Her head snapped up, and her eyes blazed with a fury that Jet hadn't understood at the time, but frightened him all the same.

"I'm IN." she said forcefully. "I...I want to be useful…I want…" At this point she grit her teeth, but forced herself to say, "I want to help get rid of those Fire Nation scum."

-o-

The boys wanted to call her Smelly because of the way she smelled different from the rest of them. Even after a long practice, drenched in sweat, the faint scent of jasmine or rosewater could be detected on her clothing, despite the fact that she was much too young to be wearing perfume. The second part of her name was earned by the swift and ruthless retribution she gave to anyone who attempted to pick on her. The nickname reflected the enigma that was Smellerbee: a tiny, ferocious, girl creature.

Sometimes the boys noticed bruises on her body, livid marks that couldn't be explained away as training mishaps. She would get angry when anyone brought this up, pulling the long sleeves of her dress tighter around her thin arms, and snarling that it wasn't any of their business. Sometimes, when the inquiry was too intense, she would turn around (often, her long brown braid would hit the offender in his face) and walk back to the village. It became apparent that when a violent reaction garnered no response, she would simply remove herself from the situation. None of the boys could quite figure out her motivation for being there, or why she disappeared so suddenly as the sun started to set. Most of the time she exhibited a fierce loyalty to Jet, but when they fought, the entire group knew. The most vicious of these arguments took place when Jet tried to influence her to sneak out of her house at night to join a midnight raiding mission, and she had refused with no explanation.

"If you can't tell me why you won't join us, SHOW me," Jet yelled at her retreating form, walking into the light of the setting sun.

**o-0-o**

The door opened, and once again she felt the terrible dread that welled up from the pit of her stomach whenever a man entered her room. She could tell by the loose smile on his lips that he was drunk, and not a happy one at that. To the men that served under him, Commander Hinaru was harsh taskmaster. To the villagers he enslaved on behalf of the Fire Nation, he was a heartless viceroy. He was merciless, sadistic, cruel…and a pedophile.

To Smellerbee, he was nothing short of a nightmare.

He walked to her bedside with deliberate, heavy footsteps, his clothing loosening and falling to the ground with each progressive step. The moonlight streamed in through the cracks of her window covering, and she struggled to lay still, to be submissive and docile as she had been taught. _Suffer through it, and it'll end eventually_ her older sisters in the brothel had always advised her. The breathing techniques she had learned during her sunlit combat lessons were now used to control her racing heart as the Commander approached, his body blocking what little light the night afforded.

Smellerbee was tired of suffering. She wanted it to end now.

"Your dress," he said shortly, and she hiked up the hem of her nightgown so that she was naked up to the waist. She tried to ignore the growth of his manhood, his ragged breathing, his rank odor...He straddled her, his knees making impressions in the bed on either side of her small body. His hands grasped at the mattress above her shoulders. Obediently she spread her legs, opening up the pathway for him to plunge into her, violating her once again.

"Wait," she interrupted at the last possible moment. He paused, gasping, more out of surprise than anything else. She had never spoken before in any of their encounters. He watched, mesmerized, as she brought her hands to the neckline of her dress and slowly unbuttoned it, the meager moonlight revealing her small, childish breasts. His breathing grew more erratic, and he prepared once again to impale himself upon her, not realizing that what she drew from her shirt was a silver dagger until it was too late.

The blade plunged deep into his chest once, twice, three times in rapid succession. Blood gushed onto her, and she pushed his body off her and onto the floor. The Commander was too shocked to do much more than sputter, blood oozing from his mouth as well. She drew the blade across his throat to prevent him from screaming and pulled back to watch him die. His blood pooled on her wooden floors, soaking into her nightgown, staining the entire room and everything she touched. She waited as he continued to gurgle, even when it was apparent that his spirit had flown. She knew that she should be feeling guilty, but curiously, she didn't. She found his swords and dragged them from the sheath, the metal unexpectedly heavy in her inexperienced hands. She took one of the curved blades and pressed it against his neck, along the line she had created earlier.

Smellerbee was unable to cut off his head by using the handle alone. She had to balance one hand on the bedpost and stand on the dull edge of the blade, the cold metal pressing uncomfortably against her bare feet, but not cutting into them. With the weight of her entire body on the sword, it was able to cut through the layers of skin, muscle, and bone. She took his swords, his head, her dagger, and the bloodstained nightgown that she wore, and left behind the lot that life had given her.

**o-0-o**

Jet cut off her braid with his dagger, and shaped her hair in a rough imitation of his own. He hated himself for not realizing her predicament earlier. He hated the Fire Nation more violently for hurting her. She took the clothes he passed her without comment, changing in front of him with no shame. He looked away respectfully, hating the way tears coursed down her cheeks, even when her face was impassive, unrepentant. She wore four red stripes across her cheeks, painted on with the contents of a tiny vial, which he could only assume was the Commander's blood. Their effect, along with the bandana tied around her forehead made her look more androgynous. By masking her gender she felt she was protecting herself. And Jet, who would never forgive himself for not protecting her, would not force her to do anything that would make her feel less than comfortable. She hated not being seen as a girl right away, but was too afraid to drop her genderless armor, too afraid of being a victim again.

The boys grew comfortable to her new look slowly, still frightened at her first bloodstained appearance in the tree house. Things returned to "normal," except for the fact that Smellerbee no longer disappeared with the sunlight. Jet started allowing girls to join the Freedom Fighters, and no one raised any complaints.

Smellerbee was never asked to share her room with any of these girls, because everyone knew she needed her privacy. She was loyal, respected, and dangerous. It was no surprise when Jet included her in his circle of trust. She had weaved herself a spot in the heart of the organization, and no one could deny her right to be there.

-o-

To a stranger she might be seen as a boy, or at the least as androgynous, and she hated the initial confusion despite her motivations for masking her identity. It was painfully apparent to anyone that knew her that she was a girl. The clothes that she had been given at the age of seven (or six? She didn't rightly know) could not hide the form that emerged as she grew older. Her movements were feminine. Her moon blood began flowing. She was becoming a woman, despite the irrational fear that gripped her heart about growing up. She was terrified when she noticed how a certain dark-eyed archer stared at her when no one else was watching. She was petrified when she saw what his eyes, incapable of lying, told her what he thought of her.

She was becoming a woman, and a boy had fallen in love with her.

And it was worse, because she had fallen in love with him, too.

-o-

His arm snaked around her waist possessively and she stiffened, reacting to years of memories of past abuses. She forced herself to relax, but already it was too late: he had moved away.

"Longshot, wait," she reached out to grab his hand, looking up into the eyes that glowed with frustration and self-disgust. "I'm sorry. It's just…"

_Don't _you_ be sorry, _he told her, his eyes burning into hers. _I should know better. Forgive me._

"Longshot, don't be angry," she begged. "It's not your fault."

_Not my fault? _He raged, his stoic composure fracturing. _Smellerbee, I'm just a man. I want you. I want you even when I know how that makes you feel. How am I any different from the men who hurt you in the past?_

"You _are _different!" she exclaimed, but he only shook his head, moving again to the door. She moved in front of him, blocking the exit. Golden rays formed a hazy halo around her, and the setting sun formed a long shadow on the porch behind her.

_Stop this._

"I won't."

For several moments they stood there, locked in a war of wills. The sun continued to sink beneath the ground, shadows growing longer as the light began to fade.

"You _are_ different, Longshot," she said finally, her voice soft as she brought a hand up to brush his cheek, where he captured hers and held it in place. Her other hand found his and planted it firmly on her waist.

"Because I _give you permission_."

-o-

-o-So there it was. This is the hardest thing I've done in a long time, but when something really wants to get written, who am I to say no? (Stinkin' Bill…) I hope you like it! Silent readers are the bane of my existence, so REVIEW!! Thanks!-o-


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